Lethal Weapon
by FraidyCat
Summary: Tag to The Fifth Man, because Alan pissed me off.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: ****Lethal Weapon**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I am happy to report that these characters are the ultimate responsibility of Falacci, Heuton et al.**

**Summary: Tag to The Fifth Man, season 5. Will be sympathetic to Charlie, and you are invited not to pursue further readership if that disturbs you.**

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Alan Eppes was a happy man. He had just come from Don's hospital room, where he was thrilled to hear the doctor say his son could be released the next day. He had been thinking a lot about his old friend Keith Watts, who had so recently lost his son Nathan, and he understood that he was blessed almost beyond comprehension. When he thought of all the years Donny had worked in such a dangerous occupation, all the close calls -- most of which Alan himself probably did not even know about -- he wanted to hit his knees and praise a God in whom he wasn't entirely sure he believed.

He strode down the corridor towards Charlie's new office, a spring in his step, breathing deeply for the first time in days. That knife may as well have been buried in his own chest, and he had felt for a while as if it took up residence there. Now, he was consumed with energy and exuberance; so much so, he had decided to come by CalSci and resume the task that had been interrupted a week before -- helping Charlie move into his new office. He smiled as he drew closer to the door. He fully expected to find the number-covered boxes exactly where he and Amita had left them -- full, unpacked, and probably sporting a layer of dust.

His eyes widened as he stood in the doorway and observed one of the most impressive academic offices he had ever seen; certainly, much more contained and neat than anything he had ever seen his youngest son inhabit. The man in question stood to the far right of the door, his back to the entrance, scribbling rapidly on one of the old-fashioned blackboards that he still preferred. At least his penmanship hadn't improved, Alan noted with a smirk as he took in the rest of the room. The boxes were all gone, their contents tidily distributed on the shelves that lined the dark walls. The office was huge. A grand desk of dark wood -- was that cherrywood? -- was angled in one corner of the room. Behind it was the large, rather tattered, lumbar-support office chair that Charlie had purchased for himself soon after accepting his position at CalSci. In contrast, the straight-backed chair facing the desk was elegant in its simplicity. In the opposite corner, on the other side of the board where Charlie stood, was an inviting seating area: A leather-covered couch, and two matching chairs.

Alan raised his eyebrows and whistled, unable to take it all in. "My God, Charlie," he said, entering the room a little further. "When did you do all this?"

Charlie spun around, hand still in mid-air. He shrugged as he recognized his father, dropped his arm a little to indicate the seating area. "I've had some trouble sleeping this week, so mostly at night. Please, have a seat."

Alan's smile faltered a little as he headed for the couch. He hadn't even noticed that Charlie had been out of the house in the dead of night? Don's injury had obviously disturbed him even more than he realized. "Well, it's very nice," he complimented as he settled into the butter-soft leather. "I actually came to see if I could help, but I can see you don't need it!"

Charlie sat in one of the two chairs, facing Alan, and allowed a small smile. "Thank-you. I'm not sure I like the arrangement; it will probably look different next time you visit."

Alan felt his own smile brighten as he shared his good news. "I just came from the hospital. Don's doctor plans to release him in the morning! I thought we'd have him stay a few days at the house, if that's all-right."

Charlie's shoulders relaxed a little, even though his smile remained...polite. "Of course that's all-right," he answered. "That's very good news. He should probably use the guest room; it's downstairs, and has a double bed. It would be more comfortable than his old twin." For a moment, a spark of amusement glinted in his eye. "Plus, he could invite Robin for a sleepover if he feels up to it."

Alan chuckled. "That would be fine with me. If she comes to stay at the house too, there's less chance he'll want to leave right away." Charlie huffed out a short laugh, and Alan continued. "That's a good idea about putting him downstairs. The guest bathroom is close, as well."

Charlie nodded and his eyes veered toward the blackboard again. Alan noticed and changed the subject. "How's that neural network stuff coming?"

Charlie's eyes narrowed as he looked back at his father. "I've decided not to pursue that," he informed the older man. "That's actually a photographic imaging resolution program I'm developing for the FBI."

Alan was a little surprised. "Something for Colby and David?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, no, just something I've been thinking about -- it could potentially help clarify previously worthless images..." He stopped for a moment, then added a rapid coda. "I can stop anytime, if one of them calls me. There's no deadline to this; I'll get right on whatever they need."

Alan thought about that for a moment, a bit nonplussed. Charlie seemed almost defensive. He shifted on the couch. "Well," he mused, trying to lighten the mood a little, "Maybe you'll have a little more time for your cognitive emergence research; until Don gets back to work full-time and drags you into something else!"

Charlie bristled. "He doesn't 'drag' me," he objected. His tone indicated barely withheld fury. "At least, he won't have to anymore. I sent all my cognitive research to Aaronson at MIT."

Alan was so horrified he couldn't speak for a moment. Finally he moved to perch on the edge of the sofa and leaned forward towards his son. "Charlie!" he admonished. "Why on earth would you...my God, son, that's years' worth of research!"

Charlie shrugged again, his face impassive. "I don't have time for it anymore. Aaronson agreed to credit me as a collaborator, if he ever publishes."

Alan stood, rubbing his forehead. When he dropped his hand, he was looking at Charlie as if he were a stranger. "I don't understand," he admitted. "I don't understand."

Charlie stood and crossed his arms over his chest. He regarded his father with resignation, and his voice was cold when he spoke. "You don't understand?" he questioned. "You're the one who pointed it out, Dad. I have to make a choice."

Alan felt himself pale. The way Charlie was looking at him, he was starting to feel like a science experiment under a microscope. Snatches of submerged memory pressed at him. "What?" he barely managed to whisper.

Charlie sighed, as if dealing with an errant child. "In the hospital," he supplied. "When Donny was still...on the respirator."

Alan closed his eyes and swayed, almost toppling back onto the couch. The memory was clear, now. He had stood between his oldest and youngest sons, at Don's bedside, and he had accused Charlie and his limitless ambitions of being responsible for his brother's condition. He had watched Charlie close his eyes in pain when he had growled at him that he needed to make a choice.

And then, Charlie's eyes still closed in agony, he had turned his back.

He had turned away from Charlie, towards Don.

Now, Alan's own eyes closed in pain for a moment before he opened them to desperately plead his case. "Son. Charlie. I was upset, terrified. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

The expression on Charlie's face didn't change. "Why not?" he countered. "You believed it -- you believe it -- and you're right. It's time for me to set priorities. If I have to let some things go, so be it."

Alan took a step in his son's direction, but Charlie took one back, so he stopped. "I never should have spoken to you that way, at that time, Charlie. You were worried and upset as well. Please, son."

Charlie glanced at the clock hanging over the door and turned on his heel, headed for his desk. "Let's forget it," he tossed over his shoulder. "I have a class in five minutes, but feel free to stay as long as you'd like. Just close the door when you leave."

Alan watched Charlie snatch a backpack off the floor near the desk and sank back onto the couch, bereft. _What had he done?_ he wondered, as his youngest scurried from the room without even looking back. _What kind of irreparable damage had his careless words caused?_ Alan knew better than anyone how deeply Charlie felt things, how extreme his reactions could be to a stressful situation. Sure, he was under duress himself at the time; but, he was a father. It was his job to support and love both of his sons -- not transfer the knife from Don's chest to Charlie's. He shivered in the warm office, suddenly chilled by the memory of something his own father said to him. The old man hadn't liked Margaret -- or anyone else, when it came right down to it -- but still, she insisted on inviting him to the wedding. At the reception afterwards, his father had pulled him aside. "Enjoy your honeymoon," he had advised. "It's probably the only happiness you'll ever find with that woman."His father had been drunk at the time -- but Alan had never forgotten that moment. Oh, they had remained cordial and polite until his father's death, but Alan never quite trusted him again. Had he just done the same thing to his own son? Had history repeated itself?

"No," he whispered aloud to the empty room. "I'll find a way to fix this. Charlie has to forgive me. He has too." Alan sat silently on the couch for quite a while, understanding something for the first time. There was more than one way to lose someone you loved.

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END


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: ****Lethal Weapon**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I am happy to report that these characters are the ultimate responsibility of Falacci, Heuton et al.**

**Summary: Tag to The Fifth Man, season 5: Back By Popular Demand!**

_**A/N: The continuation of this "oneshot" is dedicated to Connie, she who is so seriously offended by Charlie and his fans that she chooses to remain anonymous. Since my writing affects you so deeply (which is the goal of any author), I decided to post a little more. For the record, my name is on my work, along with review and PM links.**_

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**Chapter 2**

There was a strange undercurrent in the house. Granted, Don had slept away the first couple of days. It was impossible to get any sleep in a hospital. Someone was constantly taking his blood, shuttling him to x-ray, making him breathe. It had taken him the better part of two days to recuperate from being sick!

Today had been the third day, however, and he had spent much of it in the living room, in his father's recliner. He had moved to the couch for a while during Robin's visit, so he could sit with her, but had gravitated back to the chair after lunch. It was comfortable, and the slight incline of the back eased his breathing. It was Saturday, and Charlie had no classes. His brother had been home most of the day, leaving only long enough to take the grocery list to the store and complete the weekly shopping. Both Alan and Charlie had been almost embarrassingly solicitous the last few days, bringing Don whatever he needed or even considered desiring. Today they had at least added a few household chores to the routine. In addition to the shopping, there had been laundry, vacuuming. Alan was even now spending some time working in the yard. It should have felt good for things to be approaching normal again – except for that strange undercurrent pulsating under everything.

Charlie had gone upstairs after a book, and he came thundering down them now, smiling at Don. "What can I get you?" he asked, pausing at the bottom. "We have lots of soda, and snacks...is the remote where you can reach it? There might be a game on."

Don smiled fondly. "Settle down, Chuck. We just had lunch a couple of hours ago -- and the remote is right here, in my lap! Unless I could talk you into sneaking me a beer while Dad is outside?" He looked at his brother hopefully.

Charlie grinned, shook his head. "Uh-uh. Not while you're on medication, Don. Besides, I'm pretty sure Dad locked them up."

Don chuckled quietly, careful not to disturb his healing chest, which was actually feeling pretty good at the moment. "Worth a shot," he said. He tilted his head on the backrest when it hit him; one of the missing pieces. Charlie hadn't done any of his own work all day. "I'm really fine, you know," he told his brother. "You can go out to the garage, get something done. I'll probably just surf for a game for a while, maybe take a nap."

Charlie waved a hand in dismissal, coming around to sit on the couch, facing Don. "That's okay," he responded. "I'm not working on anything right now. Do you feel up to company for dinner? Amita was thinking of stopping by, maybe renting a movie."

Don shifted a little in the chair. "Sure," he agreed amicably. "Besides, Amita isn't 'company', so much as she's 'family'." He could tell from Charlie's shy smile and telltale blush how pleased his brother was to hear that, and he was glad. "Robin's got a thing tonight, or I'd invite her to join us. Some judge is retiring."

The front door blew open and Alan entered. He had kicked off muddy shoes on the porch, and now he padded in on sock feet, stopping to beam at his sons. "I needed that," he confessed. "Beautiful day to dig in the dirt!" He continued on toward the stairs. "Let me wash up a little and then I'll come down and make you boys a snack. Charlie found some beautiful mushrooms at the store, and they're just begging to be stuffed!"

Don rolled his eyes at his brother, who merely grinned and looked down at his now-open book. "Dad," the oldest son protested, "we didn't just get off the school bus. Take your time; Charlie's got it all under control."

Something flickered in Alan's eyes and his smile faded as he glanced quickly at his youngest. "I'm sure he does," he answered. When he walked behind the couch Don saw him lift a hand, as if to tousle his brother's hair, but then he pulled it back quickly, as if he was afraid to do it. "Well," he said to no-one in particular. "I'll be down soon."

Don watched him ascend the stairs and then looked again at Charlie, who was absorbed in his book. His malfunctioning hinky alarm -- which he really could have used about ten days ago, before he managed to get himself stabbed -- sent out a clang, and he suddenly put his finger on something else that was wrong. There was something...off...with his father and Charlie. When he thought about it, Don was able to remember several instances during which he had seen his father look sadly -- almost longingly -- at his brother. And while Charlie wasn't exactly treating the old man badly -- on the contrary, Don thought, he had been almost aloof, stiffly polite when talking to Alan -- he certainly wasn't acting altogether comfortable when they shared space in the same room. Don let his gaze wander to the ceiling and tried to remember the last few days. Either Alan or Charlie was nearly always available to him, practically suffocating him in their attempts to help; but, they were seldom together. Today was the first day Don had joined them in the kitchen for meals, and he recalled now that his father talked in a nervous, almost constant chatter, about anything at all. Charlie, on the other hand, only responded to him when directly questioned. Always, without fail, cordial and polite.

"What's up?" Don asked, narrowing his eyes and squinting at his brother.

Charlie looked up quickly from his book, a little startled. "Huh?" He closed the book and leaned forward as if to stand, guilt and fear doing battle on his face. "Did you want something? I'm sorry, I..."

Don raised a hand and interrupted. "Hey, hey, whoa. Whoa, buddy. You didn't miss anything -- but I'm starting to feel as if I did."

Charlie's brow furrowed, and he perched on the edge of the sofa. "Beg pardon?" he asked, confused.

Don lowered the recliner a tad so that he could get a better look at Charlie's face. "Are you angry at Dad about something?" he asked, point-blank.

Charlie reddened and slid back into the corner of the couch. "Of course not," he huffed, opening his book again. "Dad's good. We're good."

"Mmmm," Don murmured. He watched Charlie read for awhile, coming to the conclusion that the situation in the Craftsman bore more watching, and careful consideration. He closed his eyes to do just that, but his body betrayed him and he dropped off into sleep.

**................................................................................................................................**

When he awoke, the light in the room was different and Alan had taken Charlie's place on the couch, book and all. Don yawned and smiled at him. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Alan smiled back, closing the book and tossing it onto the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"I think you need a better book," grinned Don. "That one just can't seem to hold your attention."

Alan's smile wavered. "No book is better than looking at the healthy face of your child," he admitted, and Don changed the subject before things got too cloying -- although it might be too late for that.

"Where's Chuck?"

This time the smile completely fell from Alan's face. Strangely enough, he looked as guilty and fearful as Charlie had earlier, when Don had started the conversation about their father. "He and Amita went to the video store, and then to pick up some Chinese takeout." Alan's eyes flickered from Don's face. "Is that all-right for you, or it is too heavy? We weren't sure, but I told them to go ahead and get your favorites. I could make something else."

Don's stomach rumbled loudly. "Apparently, Chinese is good," he said, and Alan smiled and looked back at him. He needed to hit the head, but Don wasn't letting the opportunity pass him by. "So what's going on with you guys, anyway?"

Alan's eyes widened. "Going on? Did Charlie say something?"

Don shook his head. "Not a word," he confessed. "Not blind, here, Dad. Charlie's not working, the two of you are barely talking...I'm recovering from a stab wound, I'm not brain-dead."

Alan blanched so dramatically that Don regretted his words instantly and opened his mouth to apologize. Alan beat him to the punch. His face lined in misery, the father looked sadly at the son. "Oh, Donny," he breathed. "I think I did something really stupid."

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Don knew his mouth was gaping open, but he didn't want to speak too quickly and make his father feel worse than he obviously already did. He also didn't want to misunderstand. "You said that to him," he confirmed. "You held Charlie responsible for what happened to me?"

Alan nodded his head miserably. "I'm not trying to make excuses -- really, I'm not – but I was so scared. Until you have a child of your own, I cannot do justice to explaining the fear I felt. I thought I was going to lose you. I tried to turn some of that fear into anger, and Charlie was a convenient target. He said that he had promised you something and not delivered; he'd let you down, and I was more than ready to latch onto his guilt."

Don frowned. "That's not true, Dad. Charlie's _never_ let me down. Yeah, he could have put a day or two more into the analysis, but with the information I gave him, that wouldn't have changed the outcome." He snorted. "Hell, if you want to blame someone, blame me. I should have called in backup, at least another team. Instead, we went in four-on-four, and I nearly got us all killed. Nikki and I were hurt, and how David and Colby escaped that firefight unscathed is beyond me."

Alan interrupted. "I know, I agree," he said. "Well, I don't agree that you were to blame, but I agree that Charlie wasn't at fault, either. Frankly, I didn't even remember saying what I said until a week later. I stopped by CalSci to tell Charlie you were getting out of the hospital. While we were talking, he mentioned that he's given all his cognitive emergence research to another mathematician, and reminded me of what I said in the hospital. He says I was right to say it, Don, and that there's no room in his life for his own research anymore!" Alan rubbed at his forehead for a moment and then dropped his hand listlessly to his lap, staring at it as if it were a foreign object. "I'd give anything to fix this, Don; but I said what I said."

Don was still stunned by the cognitive emergence revelation. "He just _gave away_ all that work?"

Alan nodded miserably. "I hurt him, Donny. He says he doesn't blame me, but things are different between us; even you've seen that." His tone grew bitter. "I've told you what your grandfather said to me when I married your mother. I never forgot that, even though he apologized after he sobered up." His voice wavered. "Have I done the same thing to Charlie?"

Don considered before he answered. "You've told me other things about your father. He was an emotionless, hard, judgmental man, virtually friendless. In that light, I don't think what he said was out of character for him." Don lowered the recliner so that his feet were flat on the floor and leaned forward as far as he could. "That's not true of Charlie's father," he added gently. "Yes, you hurt his feelings, and that's going to take a little while to get over; but in his heart, he knows you didn't mean it. You've never shown anything but love and support for us; _Charlie knows that, Dad_."

Alan blinked rapidly. "I hope so," he murmured.

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_One more chapter...(Connies everywhere, beware)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: ****Lethal Weapon**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I am happy to report that these characters are the ultimate responsibility of Falacci, Heuton et al.**

**Summary: Tag to The Fifth Man, season 5.**

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**Chapter 3**

Charlie and Amita pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, dropping takeout bags and rented DVDs on the dining room table. "Soups on!" Amita called into the living room, smiling. "How are you feeling, Don?"

He grinned at her as he slowly pushed himself up from the chair. "Much better," he asserted. He looked pointedly at his father, who had all-but leaped from the couch and was headed in his direction. "Dad, why don't you help Amita set the table. Charlie," he called, looking back toward the dining room, "can you help me out for a minute?" Don smiled ingratiatingly. "That chair is too comfortable. I sat in it for so long I turned into a pumpkin."

Charlie immediately dropped Amita's hand and went to meet Don, stepping politely aside to let Alan pass. Don was moving stiffly toward the short hall that led to the guest quarters by the time Charlie caught up to him. "What do you need?" his brother asked. "Can I go get it for you?"

Don allowed Charlie to lend a steadying, guiding hand to his elbow, and waited until they were past the dining room to answer. "I'm afraid only I can do this," he teased, stopping at the bathroom door. "Do me a favor and wait for me in the bedroom, okay? I may need your help with something." Charlie hesitated, and Don rolled his eyes. "Been doing this part on my own for _days _now, Buddy." Finally, Charlie moved toward the bedroom, and Don into the bathroom. He took his time there, using the solitude to think about exactly what he was going to say to Charlie. He took so long, in fact, that Charlie was again hovering outside the door when Don finally opened it, his hand raised as if about to knock.

Don scowled. "I asked you to wait in the bedroom."

Charlie's eyes flickered to the medicine chest. "Do you need me to change your bandage? Maybe I should bring the supplies."

This time Don grabbed Charlie's elbow and shoved him down the hall. "Just get in the damn bedroom," he hissed. "I want to talk to you."

Once they were both inside, Charlie stood alongside while Don lowered himself to the easy chair, and then stood over him, his arms crossed over his chest. "You don't need to get involved in this," he stated unequivocally when Don was settled. "You're here to recuperate, not referee."

Don tilted his head so that he could look up at him. "Get involved in what?" he asked innocently. "I thought nothing was going on."

Charlie barely suppressed a sigh and moved to perch on the end of the bed. "Right," he agreed. "That's what I said. Now what can I help you with?"

Don held his gaze, letting all pretense drop. "I talked to Dad."

Something flickered in Charlie's dark eyes, but his voice remained even. "You didn't need to. I told you, Dad's fine. We're fine."

Don huffed. "And that's why you gave away several hundred hours' worth of research to another mathematician."

Charlie didn't so much as blink. "I don't have the time," he said. "That was totally my decision; Dad had nothing to do with it. Besides, I didn't give it away -- I shared. If anything is ever published, I'll get partial credit."

Don shook his head unhappily. "Partial credit..." he muttered, shifting in the chair a little. "Charlie, what Dad said was unfair, and painful to hear. I get that. But I think the real reason you can't let it go is because you were already thinking what he said."

Charlie looked confused. "I told him that," he said. "I told him that he was right to say those things to me."

Don half-smiled, sadly, and wished he could lean forward a little more. "He wasn't, Charlie," he argued, "and neither are you. What happened to me was not your fault."

Charlie stood abruptly and pushed his hand through his hair. "I told you it was a bunch of kids," he hissed. "Smash-and-grab. That's why you went in without back-up, why none of you were ready!"

Don shook his head. "You're not my C.O., Charlie, you're a consultant. I should know better than to do what I did. You make my job easier, but in the end, it's my decision how to react to the analysis you provide."

Charlie wrapped his arms around his middle as if cold. "He was so angry," he whispered. "He could see that he was hurting me, but he was so angry he didn't care. I'm...a little afraid of him, now."

Don stood so that he wouldn't develop a kink in his neck constantly looking up at his brother. "You can understand that, can't you?" he asked quietly. "He was scared..."

"As was I," Charlie said. He seemed to hunch into himself further. "Sometimes, you can't pretend something never happened, ya know?"

Don seemed to think for a moment. "I suppose that's true," he finally agreed, "but you can choose forgiveness anyway. Hasn't Dad earned that? Does one careless moment undo all the years before?" Charlie blinked at him silently. He didn't seem about to respond, so Don continued. "Just think about it. I know you've both enjoyed getting closer these last few years, since we lost Mom; I'd hate to see that end. I think we all would." Charlie still didn't reply, and Don redirected the conversation. "One more thing, and then we can go to dinner. I want you to do your own work, Charlie. It's important; it matters." He sighed, running his hand over his head. "I know, sometimes I expect you to drop everything, as if it doesn't, but that's wrong of me." He grinned sheepishly. "Of course, I can't promise not to do that again; you know how I get, on a case. I have a predisposition toward tunnel-vision."

Charlie finally at least attempted a smile. "That's why your solve rate is so high."

Don looked at him seriously. "Your help is why my solve rate is so high," he said. "Can you get your research back?"

Charlie stiffened a little and suddenly looked very tired. "I don't want to talk about all this anymore, Don. I promise you, I'll think about what you said. Can we go eat, now?"

"Only if you promise to think about it _all_," Don answered.

Charlie nodded briefly before leading the way out of the bedroom to their waiting dinner.

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Dinner was probably a less stilted experience than the other meals of the day had been, no doubt due to Amita's presence. Charlie relaxed a little more every time she smiled at him -- which did not escape Don's attention -- and the conversation around the table was easy and pleasant. It also did not escape Don's attention that Charlie participated in that conversation the least. He did initiate words with their father once, offering him a carton of kung pao chicken, but it was obvious that a good portion of his mind was elsewhere.

When the meal was over, Alan and Amita cleared the table while Charlie accompanied Don into the living room. Before he planted Don in the recliner again, he rotated it a little so that it more fully faced the television screen. When Don was safely ensconced, Charlie went to the other side of the room and pushed another easy chair into position next to the recliner. "For Dad," he explained when Don looked at him. "He'll no doubt want to keep an eye on you."

Don grinned, waggling an eyebrow. "You just want the couch for you and Amita." Charlie reddened a little, but that was indeed how the seating arrangement worked out, and the four were soon all in their places enjoying the antics of Peter Sellers in one of his early _Pink Panther_ films.

When it was over, the credits rolling, Alan smiled and stretched his arms over his head. "That was a good choice, kids. Just don't make movies like that anymore, and it was nice to laugh after...." He didn't finish his thought, but lowered his arms and started to push himself out of the chair. "I'll just go stick the dinner plates in the dishwasher; Amita and I just threw evertyhing in the sink earlier!"

Amita, who was snuggled into Charlie's side, started to move. "I'll help, Alan."

Charlie quickly leaned to brush his lips against his forehead as he wiggled out of his corner. "I've got it," he told her. "You stay here with Don, okay?" She looked a little confused, but nodded -- and Don wisely kept his mouth shut for once.

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Charlie stood at the sink, rinsing dishes, and then handed them one-by-one to his father, who placed them in the dishwasher. When he was finished, he turned and leaned against the counter while he dried his hands on a tea towel. Soon, he was playing with the towel, staring at it instead of at Alan. He spoke for the first time since they had come into the kitchen. "Don thinks I should forgive you. I'm not sure I agree."

Alan had just straightened after starting the dishwasher, and his face fell. His lower lip quivered slightly, but his voice was steady when he responded. "I see. That's...disappointing...but I can't say I blame you. Do you want me to move out of the house?"

Charlie looked up then, surprise evident on his face. "What? What?" He dropped the towel, but didn't seem to notice. "No, Dad, you don't understand. I don't think I should forgive you, because there's nothing to forgive."

Alan's eyes grew moist. "Ah, my son, how I wish that were true. Unfortunately, I have a fairly good idea how badly I hurt you. Saying what I said -- and then turning away from your pain. It...wasn't right, and I'm truly sorry."

"It was difficult to hear," Charlie admitted, "especially then. But what you said was true; there are times when I have to make a choice." He sighed. "As much as I would like to, I can't do everything; not if I want to do any of it well. Teaching, consulting, working on my relationship with Amita, pursuing every last feather that floats by and attracts my attention..." He smiled ruefully. "There's only so much of me to go around, and it's time I faced that." Alan found that he wasn't as happy with Charlie's most recent step into maturity as he thought he would be, and he stood silent. He loved Charlie the way he was, full of enthusiasm and flashes of brilliance, like a shooting star in the night sky. "I understand that your goal was not to cause me pain," Charlie continued. "If it makes you feel better, I'll say that I forgive you."

Again, Alan wasn't totally happy with that. Forgiving someone and forgetting were often two different things; this, he knew. The last thing he wanted was for his son to develop a certain wariness around him, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, aware now that Alan had the power to break his heart, if he so chose. Yet, he also understood that only time could work the damage control for which the situation called; and he hoped that time would also lead Charlie back to himself, back to all of the things he loved. Mostly, Alan felt an overwhelming relief that one of those things was apparently still him. "Thank you," he answered simply, smiling slightly, and Charlie leaned over to retrieve the dropped tea towel.

Alan watched his youngest son toss the towel onto the counter and stop at the refrigerator before rejoining Don and Amita in the living room, and his smile grew. Charlie's forgiveness _did_ make him feel better, and he would do everything in his power to bring their relationship back to what it was before that moment in the hospital had changed everything. He was blessed beyond words, to have come so close to losing both of his sons, only to hear them laughing together in the next room a few days later.

Alan Eppes was a happy man.

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END _(this time I mean it)_


End file.
